


Notes on a Lifestyle

by ClutchHedonist



Series: Modern 24/7 BDSM AU [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: 24/7 au, Alternate Universe - BDSM, BDSM, BDSM Scene, Bondage, Japanese Rope Bondage, M/M, Master/Slave, Praise Kink, Rope Bondage, Shibari, What Have I Done, fuck this is so much sin, tender sin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 11:30:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8665939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClutchHedonist/pseuds/ClutchHedonist
Summary: Three times that Percival Graves doesn't speak to Credence Barebone, and one that he does. (Modern BDSM 24/7 AU)





	

            When he first receives the assignment in his inbox, Newt assumes that it’s a joke. He asks his editor, thrice, for confirmation to the contrary. Each ensuing email grows more curt – yes, it is an actual think piece, and no, there is no one in behavioral sciences more qualified to write it. Yes, he will be observing in the field. Yes, they’re really going to publish it. No, he doesn’t need to wear anything ‘obscene’. 

             He fills three legal pads with notes –terminology, mores, appropriate customs- before he even considers calling the number. When he does, it rings only once.

            “Graves speaking.”

            The voice is low, a hint of a lilt beneath cool, measured detachment. 

            “Er-!” Newt stumbles into the conversation, “Mister Graves, yes, I- Newt Scamander, I work – I write for _Psychology Today,_ and-“

            “You’re the one they’re sending for the article.”

            “Yes. Yes, that’s me, I’m- yes.” He fumbles to uncap his pen with his teeth, “I wanted to set up a date that I could come to your-...establishment. Facility.”

            “Dungeon.”

            “…Your dungeon.” The tip of the pen hops over to his notebook, scribbles and underlines the word in the margin, “Yes.”

            There’s a moment of consideration, “…Saturday. Eleven.”

            Newt nods and murmurs it to himself as thumbs it into his calendar with the other hand.

            “You have the address?”

            “I have the address.”

            “Good.”

            The line goes silent.

 

*** 

            The pavement outside the warehouse is slick when Newt – jeans, black, collared shirt, black, cardigan, black, that’s the way it’s supposed to be done, at least according to what he’s read – parks along the curb beside it. He takes a steadying breath, scoops up his notebooks from the passenger seat and holds them close to his chest. This is an assignment, just an assignment. Observation, the same as always.  The interview bits - …he could take or leave those. Animals never needed interviewing. Much clearer, much more earnest.

            One set of lanky fingers fumbles back through his tangle of ginger hair. It won’t do to be late. Not when-…not when they’re accustomed to some sort of _protocol._ He glances at himself in the rear view mirror, jaw firming. A small jerk of a nod, and then he’s out of the car.

            There’s an elevator, a freight elevator, just inside the cramped hallway that leads in from the unmarked door. A brunette woman with a round face perches with a clipboard at the folding table beside it.

            “Membership card and ID?” She asks, offering a small smile.

            “Oh! I- I’m not a member.” Newt sputters, “…Newt Scamander. I have an appointment to see Mister Graves this evening. For an interview. Observation. Psychology Today.” He adds quickly.

            She waits for him to finish, nodding through each amendment, “ID?” She asks again.

            He scrambles for his wallet and flips open the flap that contains his license. She nods once more at the sight of it.

            “Mister Graves will be at the back of the dungeon, left side. Past the suspension rigs.” She tells him as she fixes a paper band around his wrist, “No photos.”

            “No photos.” He repeats, “Thank you.”

            He’s the only one in the elevator besides the operator when it arrives. The man, in what Newt guesses are his early fifties, wears a cap and leather vest over his black undershirt.

            “Up we go.” He tells him.

            Newt aims a mute smile towards his shoulder.

            “First night?” The man asks.

            “Yes. I’m not- I’m a writer.”

            “You’ll be all right. No one’s gonna’ touch you if you say not to.”

            Newt’s gaze flutters up, and he gives a small nod, smile broadening faintly.

            “Here we are.” The man pulls the lever of the elevator, and the doors rumble open as the car levels with the floor.

            It’s the sounds that Newt’s not ready for when he steps out. The look of it he at least somewhat recognizes from his research. But the sounds – the yelping, slapping, thudding, groaning…he blushes deeply, takes a few delicate steps into the main room and stops to give himself room for another breath or two. Then, he lifts his head deliberately, one corner of his lips plucking. Back of the dungeon, left side.

            He winds his way past a man bound to a massage table being caned along the arch of the feet, a circle of comfortable-looking couches almost overflowing with pillows and blankets, and a woman in a schoolgirl uniform, knuckles bleeding, at a desk, before he first catches sight of his contact. Salt and pepper hair, slicked back without a hair out of place. A crisp shirt and tie beneath a double-breasted jacket, sharp at the shoulders. He looks exactly like the picture saved into Newt’s camera album. He had half expected to have to try to pick him out by the line of his broad shoulders from beneath some sort of mask.

            “Mister Scamander.” Graves lifts one hand from the arm of the wingback chair, beckons him forward.

            “Mister Graves, I-” Newt steps forward to extend his hand, then freezes.

            He hadn’t caught sight of the boy at first, his dark hair melting into Graves’s immaculate wingtips in the low light, but when he lifts his cheek curiously from the older man’s shoe to look over his shoulder, a sliver of his pale jawline catches Newt’s eye. Graves rises, and the slender figure at his feet silently unfurls to give him space.

            Graves takes Newt by the half-offered hand and shakes it with an unflinching grip, “Welcome. Please, sit.” He tells him, motioning to the chair opposite his own. When he sits back down, the boy, wordless, lays his cheek down against the tip of his shoe once more.

            “Er- thank you.” Newt perches at the edge of the seat.

            “Would you like a drink? Some water, perhaps?” Graves offers.

            Newt nods, and Graves’s fingertips graze the nape of the boy’s neck. The boy pushes himself up by one elbow – Newt realizes that his wrists are bound near the small of his back – and disappears down a narrow hall just behind Graves’s chair.

            “They tell me that you’re a scientist.” Graves begins.

            “Behavioral science, yes.” Newt agrees, “I usually observe animal behavior, but-” He sees Graves arch an eyebrow out of the corner of his eye and blushes, “Oh! Not that you- No, just that I don’t- I don’t do interviews often.”

            “I see.”

            Graves doesn’t look back as the boy returns, but reaches back to set a palm against the back of one thigh as he passes him. Newt sees the glass of water clasped between his palms as he turns to aim his back towards the low table between the two chairs. The boy sinks to his knees, gaze skimming the floor, to deposit the glass at the edge of the table.

            “…Thank you.” Newt offers.

            Beneath his eyelashes, the boy’s eyes flick towards the sound of his voice for only a moment before Graves pats one knee. The boy sets his sharp chin obediently on it, and Graves cards one set of fingers through his hair. Newt can see him visibly shudder before he melts back into place at the older man’s feet.

            Something about his face, the cut of his narrow cheekbones, his dark eyes – Newt recognizes him, distant but sure.

            “So.” Graves leans back in his chair.

            Newt shakes himself from his thoughts, glances up towards the man once more, “Yes. Interviews. So.”

            Graves sweeps one upturned palm as if to offer him the space to speak, “Well?”

            “Oh-” Newt scrambles for his notebook and pen, “Yes. Well. This. All of this. Is this your-…your primary occupation?”

            It earns a chuckle from Graves, “No. I work for the government.”

            Newt tries a small laugh in return, then pauses, “…Wait, really?”

            “I’m not going to tell you which floor my office is on, Mister Scamander. But yes.”

            “But you-”

            “I am the proprietor of this dungeon, yes. It’s less a financial venture than a project of personal interest.”

            “Do the people you work with know what you do here?” Newt asks, and his eyes flick over a young man suspended from a series of ropes and pulleys a few yards to their left.

            “The ones who find their way here of their own accord.” Graves shrugs minutely, “A few closer friends who have been to my home.”

            “To your home?”

            “Credence lives with me.”

            Newt’s eyes drop to the boy on the floor, who remains motionless, but Newt sees the line of his back coil attentively. The uncommon name, too, is familiar. Newt struggles for a few moments to attach it to a family name before the realization clicks into place.

            He’s seen her speeches on several major news networks. Has frowned his way deep into a mug of coffee more than once listening to reports of her on the radio as he drives in to work. Senator Mary Lou Barebone. Her voting record alone is an ironclad rebuke of everything he’s ever believed in. Details on the estrangement of her only son have been few, but curious.

            “And Credence is-” Newt trails off, gaze still locked on the slender, placid frame at Graves’s feet.

            “My slave.”

            “…Oh.”

 

*** 

 

            When he leaves, close to dawn, Graves offers him another firm handshake and the time and date of their next meeting. Newt takes it down in both his notebook and his calendar. It won’t be difficult to find – a small restaurant on the northeast side of the city. He has written, after several hours of wordless dungeon observation following their first conversation, a list of queries for Graves on the finer points of the lifestyle 

            When he slides into his seat at the table, he’s still not certain whether or not to greet the young man beside his subject. This time, Credence is sitting in the booth on Graves’s right, nestled into the corner formed by their table and the wall. He wears a simple ribbed turtleneck, but beneath the dark fabric, Newt can see the outline of the thin band of rounded metal around his neck.

            “Evening, Mister Scamander.” Graves greets him with a nod. The suit that he wears to their dinner is a lighter grey, but no less immaculate.

            “Hello.” He returns the gesture, then offers a scattered smile towards the corner of the booth.

            Beneath the table, he can see Graves set his fingertips on the young man’s thigh.

            “Hello.” Credence murmurs. It’s the first time Newt has heard his voice, soft and tentative. Graves squeezes, and Credence’s hand flutters to rest over his as the color rises in his cheeks.

            Newt busies himself with flipping through his notebook. When he comes to the next clean page, he sets it on the tabletop with a small cough, “So.”

            Graves levels his gaze on the red-haired man, “You have questions.”

            Newt gives a small nod.

            “Then let’s get started.”

            As they wander down the list Newt has made, he finds himself unable to keep from stealing a glance now and then at the young man at Graves’s side. His dark eyes focus on the other man, silent and still, until at one point, Graves opens an arm for him. Then, they glint as he slides closer along the bench. Newt watches him as he scans the other patrons in the restaurant.

            _They could recognize him._ He realizes.

            Graves, too, seems to sense this in the boy, and Newt sees his shoulder roll back slightly to allow Credence can tuck his face against it. The tips of the boy’s ears grow pink, but he says nothing. Newt’s writing hand strays to the edge of his notebook and shorthands a few notes there. _Both deliberately arranges for and protects from risk,_ the whorls spell out. Credence pushes more tightly into the crook of Graves’s shoulder. Newt notices the line of his jaw untense.

            “You – it’s always like this?” He prods gently, tilting the cap end of the pen towards Credence.

            “For us.” Graves chuckles, “Not for everyone. But for us, yes.”

            Newt nods, making another small note of it. He sets the pen down only when their food arrives, and even then only for as long as it takes him to polish off as much of it his curiosity allows before it regains control of him. Graves pays for the meal. Newt hears Credence murmur quiet appreciation into his collarbone while he signs the receipt. The boy is rewarded with a quick brush of fingertips against his cheek as Graves rises. He’s on his feet a moment after.

            Newt follows suite, shrugging into his jacket as they pass through the double doors of the restaurant and onto the street. The streetlights have just begun to flicker on, and the headlights of cars glide along the length of the wide thoroughfare.

            “Thank you.” Newt steps quickly to match Graves’s strides as they begin down the sidewalk.

            Graves gives him a nod, “Of course. You’ll need more material than just this, I assume?”

            “Not a terrible amount.” Newt notes, “Perhaps a bit more observation in the field, another meeting to discuss…it’s only to be a few thousand words.”

            “I see.” Graves considers as they reach a crosswalk. His hand is in the small of Credence’s back, steering him towards the other side without a moment’s pause. Newt can see the boy’s pupils constrict as his eyes cast about on either side of them for cars. Newt hurries along behind them, skittering through the sweep of an approaching set of low beams.

            “This Friday, then.” Graves continues.

            Newt looks between the pair for a moment. Credence’s step quickens to match the taller man’s once more. Newt realizes, slowly but clearly, that if Graves had motioned for the boy to kneel in the center of the intersection, no amount of nervousness would have been enough to stop him. 

            “Mister Scamander?” One of Graves’s eyebrows cants.

            “Friday! Yes.” Newt agrees, “What time?”

            “The dungeon opens at ten. I suggest that you arrive soon after.” Graves offers, “I can arrange for you to observe one of our scenes if you do.”

            Credence peers at him through dark lashes, and Newt blushes, “…I-I suppose, if you think it’s- if it’s an example you think that I can use.”

            “We’ll make certain.”

 

*** 

 

            Newt can see him before he’s even fully out of the elevator, one slender arm raised above his head as Graves fastens it to the ring clipped to the support beam above him. Newt weaves his way through the gathering crowd, muttering apologies when he skirts too close. When Graves catches sight of him, he motions a handful of other attendees to the side, and Newt silently takes his place a few feet from the suspension rig. Credence, body bare but for a pair of dark briefs, doesn’t look back. Graves offers him only a nod before returning his attention to the task at hand.

            Graves runs one hand along the underside of Credence’s bicep, and the boy’s limb makes a languid arc upward to meet its fellow. Newt glimpses the handle of a pair of medical scissors in Graves’s back pocket as the larger man reaches up to bind the boy’s wrist into place. He gives the back of each hand a tap, and Credence flexes and splays both sets of fingers twice before giving a mute nod.

            Stepping back to pick up another length of rope from the floor, Graves studies the length of the brunette’s body. His brows knit in consideration. Newt feels his breath begin to shallow as Graves winds the rope over Credence’s narrow hips, secures each thigh individually. Another rope is drawn up through a pulley, then looped through the collected knot a few inches beneath the boy’s navel.

            Graves clips the pulley into the upper ring alongside the wrist bindings. He tests the line, and then sets one palm against Credence’s flank. The boy lets out a soft breath, sinking into the bindings. His feet slowly lift from the ground as he sits back into the harness. Graves meets his eyes for a moment, then unclips the line binding his wrists.

            Newt hears the breath leave him just before he falls. He watches his back arch as he plunges backward. Strands of dark hair sweep the ground, and Newt cringes instinctively, but Credence hovers just above it, panting softly. The taut arc of his body sways with lingering momentum. Graves steadies him with a hand along the back of one thigh, and Credence bucks and shudders, pressing his cheek to the older man’s calf through his pressed slacks.

            As Graves begins to weave lines down to each of Credence’s ankles, Newt lets his gaze fall onto the young man’s face. Credence’s breath comes slow and deep through just barely parted lips. A small smile plays at the corner of his mouth as his eyes slide shut. The persistent furrow of his brow smooths. Newt ponders if it would be bad form to sketch him in this habitat.

            Graves guides the boy slowly through a series of changes in position. Newt stops flinching at each sudden drop and roll as he watches Credence’s frame, utterly pliant within the bindings, skim without worry just above the floor. When Credence does open his eyes, his pupils are blown wide, and the flush of his skin has begun to trickle down the hollow of his neck. Graves glances down to him, presses a palm into the small of his back.

            He leaves it there for a few moments, anchoring the boy, before he begins to right him once more. Credence’s eyelids flutter. When he’s fully upright, held in place by the hip harness alone and toes trailing over the ground, Graves maneuvers his face into the crook of his neck. Credence squirms into it with a shivering sigh. By the time Graves has him untied and wrapped into a blanket, Newt has almost remembered how to breathe.

 

*** 

 

            Newt is paging through his notes a final time at one of the café tables when they arrive.  Graves pulls out the chair closest to the wall first, and Credence sinks into it with a small, grateful smile. Newt offers a nod to Graves as he takes his own seat. 

            “Good afternoon.” 

            “Good afternoon, Mister Scamander.” Graves knits his fingers together as he rests his hands on the table. He looks over the pages spread in front of Newt and gives a short chuckle, “It looks as if you had a productive observation.”

            Newt blushes faintly, “It was- that is, I- …it was very informative.” He says nothing on the rest of the evening after his arrival home, but cannot help but think that Graves imagines it nonetheless.

            “So. Our final meeting.” Graves leans back in his chair, watching him, “Unless you need to come back more information after this, of course.”

            “I-…I think I’ll be all right. Thank you.” Newt replies as he sweeps the larger portion of his paperwork into a less disarrayed pile, “Just- perhaps just a few more quotes, a few last questions.”

            “By all means.”

            Newt finds that he’s still chattering through their lunch, well past the time that he’s finished his own entrée and easily into their observations of the dessert menu.

            “Coffee for me, hot please. A bit of cream, three sugars.” He mumbles, eyes never leaving his notepad. After a moment, Credence reaches delicately for the menu in front of him, returning it to the waitress, and Newt pauses, “…Sorry.”

            “Two espressos.” Graves adds, “And a slice of the cheesecake.” Newt watches Credence tuck a minute smile into his own shoulder. Graves hands over the two remaining menus, then straightens his lapels as he stands, “If you two will pardon me a moment.”

            Newt nods. Graves pauses and lifts one of Credence’s hands. He presses a short kiss into the boy’s palm, then smooths it down on the table. Without shifting his hand, the boy adjusts his elbow to allow it to stay in place as Graves slips away from the table.

            They spend a few long seconds in silence. When Credence speaks up, Newt can barely hear him.

            “Four years.”

            Newt blinks, “…Sorry?”

            “You didn’t ask.” The boy murmurs, “You-…for your story. Four years. Like this.” He offers with a crooked half-smile.

            “Oh!” Newt scrawls it into one of the margins of his notes, “Yes. Good. Thank you.”

            Credence nods, and the air between them goes silent once more. This time, Newt breaks it.

            “You- he-…what is it, for you?” He inquires, “I mean, that you-…that you get. From all of this?”

            Credence blinks, opens his lips to speak. Newt’s pen hovers just above a fresh page. Tray resting on his shoulder, the waiter arrives, and Credence clamps his mouth shut once more.

            “Two espressos and cheesecake?” Credence makes a small motion, and the waiter sets them down at his and Graves’s place settings, “…And a coffee?”

            “That’s mine, thanks.” Newt pipes up, lifting a finger. The waiter nods and places the steaming cup in front of him. Newt quickly empties the cream and sugar packets into it as the other man sweeps off towards another table.

            “Where were we?” He mutters, lifting his pen and beginning to shuffle his notes once more.

            He sees it almost before it happens. The corner of one pad jostles the saucer beneath the coffee cup. The cup upends, sloshing its contents out over the table. Newt scrabbles for his notes, manages to drag them into his lap before anything is soaked. Credence’s eyes widen and he snaps one hand out of the way. The other, the one that Graves kissed and placed, remains fixed to the spot.

            “C-Credence!” Newt gasps as he watches the liquid overtake the boy’s fingers. Credence winces and lurches back. Newt can see him begin to shake at the wrist, “Move!” He urges.

            Credence shakes his head, drags in a breath as he begins to search for a napkin with his free hand. His dark lashes hang heavy and damp. Newt leans in to try to pry his hand off the table, but Credence uses the other to push him away.

            “Credence?” There is a note of concern in Graves’s voice as he makes his way back down the aisle.

            “I-I’m so sorry, I-” Newt sputters, notes crinkling against his stomach as he gestures helplessly to Credence, “I- and then he-”

            “…Sir.” Credence whimpers, voice tight.

            “Up.” Graves orders immediately.

            Credence’s palm jolts back from the table. Beneath it, a spot of the tablecloth remains unblemished. Graves drops down into his chair and loops his fingers around the boy’s wrist, draws his hand to himself.

            “Shh. Shhh.” He murmurs as he dips his napkin into his water glass and begins to dab away the dark liquid. The digits beneath it are red, scalded, “Such a good boy.” Graves breathes, “So good.”

            Credence’s throat trembles, and he sets his cheek against Graves’s shoulder.

            “My good boy.” Graves purrs.

            Newt sees a smile crack Credence’s lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god, I am COMPLETE GUTTER TRASH, but I will probably write more of this. Until then, I always take prompts at clutchhedonist.tumblr.com.


End file.
